Crown of Lies
by Rachel Marie Phillips
Summary: A sixth-year story. War looms on the horizon as Harry and his cohorts prepare for inevitable confrontation with the Dark Lord. Can Dumbledore’s Army harness untapped power, stay afloat in a new political world and sort out the messy reality of young love?


First and foremost, as always, _Harry Potter_ and its universe belong to J.K. Rowling.

This is an AU story that takes place during _Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. _The dialogue at the start is taken from HBP, but from then on the story diverges from the sixth's book structure and narrative.

Enjoy!

**Crown of Lies**

Chapter One: The Flobberworm Affair

All around Harry, faces were turning blue, deep violet and brilliant red. Beads of sweat were forming on Ron's forehead as his mouth twisted into a strange scowl. To his left, Ernie appeared constipated and across the room Parvati looked near tears. Even Hermione lips were pressed into a tight, white line. Harry might've laughed had he been in a better mood.

Instead, he was wavering between boredom and irritation. He'd been horrified when Dumbledore announced Snape's rise to the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor. The news was so singularly appalling that Harry'd even let an audible "No!" escape his mouth, mere feet away from the professor.

In this way, his sixth year began as a drag. Defense Against the Dark Arts, which had always been his favorite and best class despite its most dismal moments – he needed only look back to Umbridge's instruction the previous year for an example – was already becoming the bane of Harry's existence.

He turned toward the window as it became increasingly obvious that Ron was no closer to jinxing him. Dark curtains blocked out any hint of sky. Harry thought longingly of the pitch, of flight. Perhaps during one of his free periods, he'd take out his Firebolt and give flying a go. He missed the stadium, the freedom of soaring over the grounds in peace …

"Pathetic, Weasley," snapped Snape, drawing Harry's attention back into the classroom. Ron was red-faced and frowning, no doubt cursing himself and the professor alike.

"… Let me show you."

Snape's wand was pointed at Harry before he'd even shaken off the lethargy of daydream. He felt the familiar rush of wind that preceeded most jinxes, the split-second warning. And without any thought, he raised his wand and snapped, _"Protego!"_

Professor Snape was knocked backward with invisible force. He tumbled into a desk, a heap of black robes and greasy hair. His eyes were wide for a second, then narrowed as he raised himself up to his full height once again. All around Harry, students stopped working and turned their gazes toward their peer, awaiting a serious telling off. Harry's cheeks and neck grew hot with this added attention.

"Do you remember me telling you we were practicing _nonverbal_ spells, Potter?" demanded Snape.

"Yes."

Snape's voice was silky and dangerous. "Yes, _sir."_

"There's no need to call me 'sir,' Professor."

A beat. It was the sort of thing Harry regularly imagined himself saying, and he wasn't quite sure how he'd let it escape his lips. Now his heart raced, and he prepared for Snape to curse him on the spot. There were a number of audible gasps, and Harry could tell, a few repressed sniggers. Hermione took a step to the left into Harry's field of vision. She looked horrified.

Snape stared at him. His voice remained soft, menacing. "Detention, Saturday night, my office. I do not take cheek from anyone, Potter. You'll learn that sooner or later.

Harry was positively fuming. As though he wanted to spend his entire Saturday evening back at school harassed by Snape. Ron had apparently forgotten the task at hand, as he was positively beaming at Harry. As soon as the defense professor turned his back, he was striding toward Harry, grinning. Before the word _"Brilliant!"_ could escape his lips, Snape turned on his heel and glared at the pair.

"Mr. Turpin!" snapped Snape. A dark-haired Ravenclaw at Snape's side jumped. "Change partners with Weasley. Weasley, my class is not your social hour."

Ron dragged his feet two pairs over to where Terry Boot, a handsome Ravenclaw, had his wand raised at the girl. She cast a weary look in Harry's direction, apparently less than pleased. Wordlessly, she crossed the room and fell into position across from Harry.

Had it been anyone else, Harry might've felt some measure of relief. Though he was sorry to say it, at least this way he might get some practice. But this girl – whom Harry knew vaguely by face but not by name – gave him a reproachful look.

"Hi," said Harry.

She only frowned. "I hope you don't plan on sending me flying as well," she muttered.

He bit back a response. Her accusatory gaze only made Harry feel worse about the lesson and his prospects for D.A.D.A. in general.

Harry cleared his throat. "You first, then …"

She raised her wand. There was a moment of silence as she concentrated, and he wondered if it would be the same kind of waiting game it had been with Ron. He was eager for his chance to give nonverbal spell-casting a go … With any luck, he'd be good at it … Though he'd never let Snape see, he was excited for this upper hand, it seemed rather silly to tip off an enemy to his intent, even by a few seconds—

A weight like a brick hit him in the chest, and Harry toppled over and began to cough. From across the classroom came Snape's silky tones. "Potter, you continue to be a disappointment."

His partner didn't smile, but her serious expression visibly lifted as she lowered her wand. "Ready to give it a go?" she asked.

Harry now felt down right sour. "No, I'm not 'ready to give it a go,'" he repeated under his breath, though he raised his wand all the same.

He concentrated. He thought of the look falling from her face as he hit her with a successful jelly-legs jinx. He thought and thought and replayed the image in his head over and over as she successfully jinxed him three more times before the hour was out. And all she managed to feel was "a slight tickling in her right knee." When the lesson was over, she gave him a kind of hopeless look and went off with Terry Boot, leaving Harry fuming.

* * *

At least by dinner Harry's day had improved. He, Ron and Hermione climbed the steps toward Gryffindor Tower after the meal – Harry cradling his borrowed copy of _Advanced Potion-Making_ against his chest, and the vial of Felix Felicis in his pocket. Though Defense was sure to be a terror with Snape at the helm, he now had renewed hope for Slughorn's Potions class … as long as he retained possession of the "Half-Blood Prince's" helpful notes. Hermione was eyeing him suspiciously, and Harry felt a little guilty about not spilling the beans, but he wasn't quite ready to share the textbook. Instead, he listened to Ron recount the story of the day's earlier lesson.

"… You must've gone _absolutely _barking mad, Harry. But it was the most brilliant thing I've ever seen, I wish it'd been me …"

"Lay off, Ron," Harry sighed once again. "I've got detention now—"

The red-head was not easily deterred. "And you don't think it's worth it? Giving it to Snape like that? The look on his face!" Ron looked off into the distance wistfully.

Hermione was less amused. "You'd do well to focus, Harry—"

"Come off it, Hermione," chuckled Ron. "Ole big-nose has had it coming for years."

"Nonverbal spells are the key to Defense Against the dark Arts, Harry." She continued, as though she hadn't heard a word of what Ron said. "They're an art, wizards –_ Aurors _– are worthless without them."

Harry remained defiant. "I won't let him push me around."

She looked horror-struck. "He's a professor, Harry! He's not pushing you around, he's trying to _teach_ you."

"Bollocks," snapped Ron. "He's had it in for Harry for years. And the lot of us, if you think about it—"

They came to a stop in front of the portrait of the Fat Lady. Harry shook his head. "He tried to jinx me, and I defended myself. That was the lesson, wasn't it?"

But even Harry couldn't delude himself into believing it. Ron nodded, satisfied with Harry's answer and gave the portrait the password. But as it swung open and the trio entered the Gryffindor Common Room, Harry couldn't avoid feeling guilty at the look Hermione was giving him. Her mouth was pursed into that disapproving look he and Ron had received so many times before, and this time he couldn't dismiss the shame he'd felt for the remainder of the lesson – both at his actions toward Snape, awful as he was, and his inability to cast a proper nonverbal spell.

He could relax a little as they settled onto a few poufs in front of the fireplace. Hermione immediately withdrew her textbooks, eager to get to work, but Harry and Ron simply sat in companionable silence for a few minutes. Harry closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the couch. At least the next day there would be no Snape. Wednesday's lesson would certainly be better as well.

Ron yawned loudly. "What about Quidditch?"

"What about it?" asked Harry, idly flipping through _Advanced Potion-Making _in his lap. The book was filled to the brim, ever corner and margin scribbled on with notes and various spells that Harry was eager to try out … many of which he was sure had nothing to do with Potions whatsoever.

"Trials, mate. When are we having them?"

Harry scratched his chin thoughtfully. He hadn't actually considered it, or the magnitude of his new position. When he glanced over at Ron, he saw that his friend looked a bit nervous. Sure, he'd steadied himself and helped Gryffindor win the Quidditch cup last year, but he'd always had a few problems with confidence under pressure. Harry simply shrugged. "Saturday, I suppose … before my detention. You won't have to try out again, naturally—" he added as an after-thought. "But it'd be nice for you and Katie to be there so we could decide on new players together."

The other boy looked relieved. He grinned and took out a fresh scroll of parchment. "Sounds brilliant," he agreed, and took a look over Hermione's shoulder at what she was writing.

She pulled up her quill and hid her notes. "Honest, Ron! You're in your sixth year, don't you think it's about time you took some responsibility for yourself?"

"I _am_ being responsible! I'm working with you, aren't I?"

She looked affronted. "I'm not just here for you to _copy_ from—"

"C'mon, 'Mione!"

Hermione looked angrily from Ron to Harry, then stood. He wasn't sure how he factored into her cross attitude at all, though he supposed something about his performance in Defense and Potions had to do with it. "I'm going upstairs," she declared, and stormed off.

Both boys watched her march up the girls staircase, passing – on her way up – Lavender Brown and Parvati, who emerged into the Gryffindor Common Room with crystal balls in hand. Parvati made a beeline for a table off near a window, but Lavender hesitated and approached Harry and Ron, a smile on her face.

"Hi Ron," she giggled, ignoring Harry completely. "Good summer?"

Ron, who was pouting at his Defense textbook, seemed caught off guard. He looked up at her and shrugged awkwardly. "All right," he replied. "Yours?"

Another giggle escaped her highly-glossed lips. "It was lovely, thanks for asking!" and with that, she practically skipped off to join Parvati.

"What was that all about?" demanded Ron under his breath.

Harry could only shrug. He watched Lavender glance once more in Ron's direction and settle into an armchair across from Parvati, who smiled patiently but looked a little exhausted. He would not pretend to be able to explain girls and their actions or motives, which he'd long accepted would be lost upon him.

* * *

His even-day schedule was a fair amount more tolerable to Harry than the previous day's. Herbology with Professor Sprout was a great deal more fun than Snape's class, and even Slughorn's as the professor seemed intent on singling Harry out as the single most gifted potion-maker he'd ever encountered in his entire career – which Harry found quite embarrassing given that he was taking tips from a student who hadn't given his expressed permission for him to copy off his work.

The afternoon meant double Transfiguration, which wore Harry out, but after a brief supper he skived off working on his Potions essay in favor of a little flying. Ron and Hermione had a prefect meeting, and so he would not feel guilty about skipping work while they put in a few hours. It was perhaps the last warm day of a fading Indian summer, and lesson-day or not Harry would not let it pass unacknowledged.

Off in the West and over the mountains, the sun was beginning to set. The grass felt good beneath his feet and the bite of an evening breeze made his cheeks tingle pleasantly. The pitch, he discovered happily, as completely unoccupied.

Harry tightened his grip on his broom. He mounted it and kicked off the ground with a familiar ease, replacing tension with the kind of bliss that only came with defying gravity.

It was a happy observation that Harry made once in his third or fourth year that the feeling never hanged. The delight, the awe … the rush that came with flying … that pull toward Earth for the first few feet and the weightlessness that followed. Once or twice in his dreams – when he was young, sleeping beneath the stairs in the Dursleys' house – he was rushing, whirling, filled with air though he was soaring and twirling in the void of space. Of course, then, Mrs. Durlsey scolded him for nurturing impossibly childish and stupid dreams, but he discovered – at Hogwarts – that they weren't quite so.

Against a portrait of red and gold, Harry soared higher and higher, vaguely pursuing the sun as it disappeared over the horizon. When he reached the perimeter of the pitch, he turned, flying the ellipses and succumbing to the stomach-churning sensation of speed.

Here, his happiness was completely restored. Here – only here – could he feel free of his burdens and torments.

Like Sirius. Though he hadn't shared it with Ron or Hermione, his godfather haunted his dreams more frequently than Voldemort did. At night, he'd awake in a cold sweat, having seen his father's friend falling, falling impossibly slowly into a void. And Harry was chasing, running, arms outstretched. In his dreams, he could save him, he was _so close_. And if he could save Sirius, it would mean he could save his parents too, so he would struggle to reach, getting closer and closer … only to awaken at that critical moment, feel Sirius's life-breath just out of his grasp.

In this way, he missed dreams of the Dark Lord. They would've been a welcome distraction from the guilt he felt about his godfather. But Voldemort offered him no such relief. Strangely enough, for the first time in years, Voldemort was absent, removed from him. Foreign to him.

Harry pushed thoughts of Sirius and Voldemort from his mind, scolded himself from dwelling upon them and not the immediacy of being on the pitch. This place was for relief, not that …

It was becoming cold. The sun had finally set, and now Harry shivered. He landed and began the trek back to the castle, forcing his mind to dwell upon Quidditch and Ron's keeping and the trials this coming weekend rather than the unpleasantness he could hardly escape in his dreams.

Harry squeezed his hands as he reentered the castle, working blood back into them. He began his way toward the Gryffindor Common Room, passing a group of girls who seemed to collectively squeal when he passed them by. More baffling behavior, Harry shook his head.

"They've taken quite a shine to you."

Harry jumped, as he found himself suddenly face to face with his Defense partner from the previous day.

She didn't smile at him – not by Harry's definition anyway – but the corners of her mouth were slightly upturned … which made her look a little more pleasant and approachable than she had in class. There were books in her arms, and she'd lost her Ravenclaw jumper. Instead, her sleeves were turned back and her wand was tucked into bun.

"They are?" was all he could think of to say.

She chuckled a little. "They won't stop … it's become quite annoying, actually." With that, her look dissipated, making her look a little haughty and mean.

He felt defensive. As though he wanted girls to fall into a fit of giggles whenever he walked by! It was embarrassing. "What are you doing here?" he demanded awkwardly, slightly annoyed to have encountered her. He'd been fine alone with his thoughts …

The girl's eyes narrowed. "Funny thing, Hogwarts. You see, I live here as well."

Harry walked on, gripping his Firebolt tight. He didn't much feel like conversation, and he was less and less keep on having it with her. But as he passed her, he heard her mutter, "So much for trying to be polite," and he felt a bit bad. So he stopped and turned back toward her.

She was walking away from him. "What's your name?" Harry blurted to her retreating back.

The Ravenclaw hesitated and turned back to him. Her reply was guarded: "Lisa Turpin." She paused, then gave a look somewhere between a smile and a smirk. "Yours?"

It made him smile for some reason. "I'm Harry."

Lisa nodded. "You were pretty rubbish in Defense today, Harry."

Harry frowned. His mood took a short, steep drop. But Lisa seemed unruffled by this and gave the same not-smile with the corners of her mouth almost turned up. "I was impressed with your work in Potions, though. So was Slughorn, it seems."

He shrugged. "I don't much care what he thinks about me."

"Nor Snape, for that matter."

"No." They stared at each other silently, and Harry thought about saying goodnight, but instead returned the compliment. "You were quite good … with, uh, your jinx."

She nodded. "Thank you. Good night." And with that, she rather maddeningly turned on her heel and walked off.

Harry collapsed on his bed, exhausted and still in his Quidditch gear. He was soaked through, and likely soaking his quilt and pillow as well, but he couldn't be brought to move.

He'd underestimated how much work filling Quidditch trials would be. He, Katie and Ron had worked ceaselessly for three hours that morning, trying out every would-be Chaser and Beater who could balance on a broom … and that included most of Gryffindor House. Harry was quite used to being a pariah, so he would accept that hat again … there were many tantrums on the pitch, and Harry was positive he'd made more than a few enemies as his temper shortened throughout the day on the pitch. Most of the house was down at lunch, but he'd done little more than make a sandwich for him to eat in his room … there were bound to be a few sore sports once he posted the final list.

In the end, Ginny and Dean – ironically, a couple – turned out to be a fairly good pair of Chasers to compliment Katie's already honed technique. Ginny outscored everyone that morning, neither rain nor a couple of terrible companions in the sky for her trial could slow her. Dean was scored less than Katie, Ginny and a few others, but he flew incredibly well and was never touched once by a Bludger. He made great assists and could certainly move the ball down to the scoring end with ease.

As for Beaters – few could top the talents of Fred and George. With Katie's sound advice, he settled upon Jimmy Peakes and Ritchie Coote who had out-performed most others by default.

He heard the bedroom door open and close, and the bed springs one over give a little moan. When he opened his eyes, Ron had settled back onto his pillows, freshly clean and wrapped in his bathrobe, nose buried in a copy of 'Quidditch Monthly.'

Harry was content for them to remain silent – he could certainly go for a nap before his miserable detention with Snape – but Ron held the magazine back and was looking thoughtfully toward the ceiling.

"Hermione's birthday is soon."

Harry closed his eyes once more. It was true – about a week off. He'd have to think of a gift soon …

"I was thinking we should throw her a party or something."

This surprised him. He perked up a little and looked at Ron, who was once more staring at 'Quidditch Monthly.' Harry had known Ron for a long time, and had many reasons to like him. He was loyal (save those few times he was cross with Harry), quite amusing, always on for mischief and fun. But throwing Hermione a birthday party was a kind of considerate that he'd never really known Ron to be. He, of course, was considerate in his own way – sometimes he'd say the right thing to somebody without really realizing it – but not in a 'planning ahead something really nice to do' kind of way.

Then, Harry grinned inwardly. Ron was avoiding his gaze, but Harry had to admit that this struck him as 'boyfriend' behavior … at least coming from him. He had always found it quite tiresome, ever since the Yule Ball in their fourth year, that Ron and Hermione steadfastly refused to admit their attraction to one another, as plainly obvious as it was to Harry, the other Weasleys and Gryffindor House at large. Perhaps this was progress …

"That would be nice," Harry agreed simply.

"I think she'd like it," Ron continued, studying a picture of the Cannons. "We've never really done anything special before."

Harry propped himself up by the elbows. "Where would we do it? Here?"

Ron shook his head. His still-wet red hair flopped about his head. "Prefects have rights to the Prefects' Lounge on the third floor. We've got to let the others' come if they want to, but it might be nice … a bit nicer than around Seamus' gym socks, at least."

He grinned outright at Ron. "Sounds like you've been doing a bit of planning, mate."

Ron turned to Harry and frowned, but Harry couldn't help but keep smiling. "Stop looking at me like that." Harry didn't, but simply sat upright and shrugged. Ron lobbed a pillow in his direction, which Harry grabbed out of the air and tossed back. "It's not a big deal—"

"I didn't say it was."

"Besides, it gets me out of buying a present …"

Harry kept grinning knowingly at Ron, until it ticked him off enough to pull back he curtains on his four poster. Harry could hear him snoring quietly soon enough, and took a page out of his book … He read _Advanced Potion-Making_ until he dozed off.

* * *

Harry arrived at the door of Snape's office down in the dungeons two minutes before eight o'clock. He didn't dare press the professor's nerves – instead, he would heed Hermione's warning and try to get his detention over with as soon as possible. Maybe there would still be a bit of pleasure to be found in his Saturday night.

He raised a hand to knock, but the door creaked and slowly opened before his knuckles connected with wood. Snape's office had always been an unpleasant place, rather claustrophobic to Harry. The ceiling was never visible beneath a haze that seemed to linger just above his head, where were always strange and – Harry assumed – dangerous odors permeating the air. He gave a little cough and stepped through the threshold.

"Potter," sneered Professor snape from behind his desk. He put down his quill and rose, a pale face framed by a curtain of black hair and shadows behind him.

Harry controlled his tone. "I'm here for my detention, _sir_."

"Obviously." He emerged from behind the desk and took slow, calculating steps toward Harry. Harry, for his part, held his ground with his chin high. When the professor breezed around him, he turned to follow, and stopped short with Snape halted in his steps and turned back toward him.

"You will learn – as your inadequate mind is certainly capable of retaining the most _basic_ commands – to respect me, Potter, or you will spend the remainder of your sixth year in detention."

Harry clamped his mouth shut and repressed the smart response that threatened to emerge. Instead, he followed in silence to the darkened Potions classroom. With a flick of Snape's wand, the door flew open and Harry was immediately hit with the most awful smell he'd ever encountered. His eyes began to water and his hands immediately flew to cover his nose and mouth.

He gasped a little. "What _is_ that?" demanded Harry incredulously.

Snape paused at the door and smirked. "Flobberworms. We've had the most unfortunate luck to receive three barrels-full that seem to have gone rotten. I daresay a few are salvageable. You're to separate the rotten flobberworms from the good by hand, your wand work is so immensely underwhelming that I think you'd damage the best."

Harry's throat felt a bit like it was on fire as he took a cautious step closer to the classroom, and he felt a shiver of rage toward Snape and D.A.D.A. Flobberworms were ten-inches long each … and the barrels in the front of the classroom were almost chest high. Harry could only hope they weren't filled to the brim.

"Do you have any gloves, sir?" asked Harry, wishing Snape had some shred of goodwill toward him and knowing that it was futile.

Professor Snape was already on his way back to his office. "No protective gloves necessary, Potter. Close the door behind you."

His eyes wide with unshed tears from the stench, Harry let out a string of curses as he approached the flobberworm barrels. Some Saturday.

Sorting through the flobberworms turned out to be back breaking work. It was to his horror that Harry discovered some were alive and wriggling in the crate. When he pried the lid off the first barrel, he physically recoiled. They were absolutely putrid, each writhing in a thick white mucous. He wasn't certain how to tell which were good and which were bad … nor was he quite certain what to do with the good ones. He managed to find an unused cauldron in a store closet and dragged it closer, his shirt up around his nose. He also tried, unsuccessfully, to find a pair of gloves. Dealing with one flobberworm back in Care of Magical Creatures with Hagrid had been quite enough for Harry … he gave a little squeeze to a fairly clean looking one near the top of the barrel and gagged.

After an hour, the task was still a kind of pain-staking torture – Harry considered telling Snape that the lot were bad and there was little he could do about it – but he'd at least grown more accustomed to the stench. His eyes weren't watering, and he managed to distract himself from the labor by going through inane Quidditch statistics in his head. He'd broken out into a bit of a sweat; with the door closed and no windows to be found, the dungeon was a bit hot and leaning in to the barrel only to stand again was beginning to give Harry a backache.

Forget D.A.D.A. This was true misery – which made Harry guiltily think about Hagrid and the fact that he, Ron and Hermione had not only dropped his class but also failed to go see him since their arrival a week prior.

During a self-appointed break around ten – Snape had yet to come around once, and Harry was almost sure he fully intended to let him stay down here working all night if need be – Harry gave magic a go. Making sure nobody was outside the door, he pointed his wand at one of the flobberworms.

Silently, he thought _"Wingardium leviosa!"_ He willed it, with all his might, to rise up out of the barrel. The flobberworm in question, however, did little more than continue to wiggle in place. Harry was quite certain this was not his own work … instead, the little blind buggers doing what they did best … which was little.

He thought the incantation again … even dared to prod it with the tip of his wand. This made a little more mucous squirt from its … hole but nothing else. The sweat on Harry's forehead began to pour as his irritation rose. Here he was, stuck in the bloody dungeon, a sixth year incapable of levitating a little blind slug. _"Wigardium leviosa!"_ he repeated wordlessly. _"Wingardium leviosa, damnit!"_

Behind him, the door creaked and Harry jumped a mile into the air, thinking that it was Snape … he was caught and would be assigned another detention for attempting to use magic again.

He turned grimly, only to find himself staring into the face of Lisa Turpin, who was pinching her nose and looked positively scandalized.

"What _is _that ghastly smell?" she coughed, horrified.

"Flobberworms," replied Harry.

"What?"

"Rotton flobberworms!"

Lisa furrowed her brow, and then took a step further into the classroom. "I can't understand you," she replied loudly. Harry thought to himself that she sounded a bit like a duck, her air cut off like that, only then to remember that his shirt was halfway around his face. He yanked it down – he didn't care much about the smell anymore.

Chuckling, he jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "My detention, separating flobberworms."

Lisa stood on her tip-toes from the door to look past him, and the color drained from her cheeks a little. "Oh," she said again.

He wanted to ask what she was doing down here, but her reaction to that question before hadn't been so great, and so instead Harry turned back to the second barrel and tried the spell again. He didn't much like the idea of him watching him handle worms and he didn't like having her watch him try to use nonverbal magic, when she'd already succeeded and he'd yet to three lessons later. He was used to being quite smart at Defense Against the Dark Arts – it had always been his best class, even in the course's darkest days. Behind him, he heard her soft footsteps shuffle across the classroom and replace something on the counter. He expected to hear them return to the door, but instead Harry found silence.

Behind him, Lisa cleared her throat. He looked her way, but she was staring at the floor in the door's direction, like she was considering making a clean break with minimal words exchanged. Fine by him.

Instead, she lifted her chin and looked at him. "You're doing it wrong," she offered. Harry felt his stomach tighten. Even with a cartoon character voice, she still managed to talk down to him.

A defensive swell rose in his chest. "How do you know what I'm trying to do?"

"Would you like help?"

He wasn't sure if she meant with the flobberworms or magic. In either case, the answer was 'no.'

Harry said this, and Lisa frowned. She nodded slightly and retreated for the door, her brown skin a little chalky, whether by the smell of the flobberworms or Harry's dismissal. Before she left, however, she turned and spoke to him again. "Whether or not you want my help," Lisa offered, "You could stand to work harder at it. None of us like standing around listening to Professor Snape berate you. It's embarrassing."

Harry was caught off guard. "You think _I _like it?" he demanded hotly.

Lisa gave Harry a look much like the ones Hermione often did when she was giving he and Ron a telling off. But her face was devoid of the tenderness that always seemed to be swelling behind his best friend's expression. Instead, Lisa's was a look of someone who thought she knew best. He didn't much like it … partially because he knew it was true. Of course, getting into it with Snape was endlessly entertaining to his fellow Gryffindors – they felt similarly about the former Potions master. Harry felt, however, that he deserved a bit of patience; they'd only just begun nonverbal magic, he would get the hang of it soon enough … even if the rest of the class had already successfully cast a jinx or charm silently at least _once_.

It was endlessly frustrating, to go from able to last place – teacher last year of Dumbledore's Army to the worst Defense pupil in the class so quickly. And in his worst class, Potions, he'd risen to the top almost exclusively due to the work of someone else, the so-called "Half-Blood Prince" who gave him all the answers in his textbook.

Harry snapped back to reality. Lisa was frowning, perhaps waiting for a bit more telling off. Instead, Harry turned back to his task and began to sort the flobberworms by hand once more. Without another word, she shut the door behind her.

* * *

Harry collapsed on the couch in front of the fire in Gryffindor Common Room. It was half-past midnight when he finally finished Snape's task and he looked worse for the wear. Though he could no longer distinguish the stench, Harry was sure he still smelled like flobberworm, and his hands – though he'd paused to wash them three times on his way back up to Gryffindor Tower – were still prune-like, not from the water but rather from the mucous.

Just as his eyes drifted shut – the room was fairly quiet, only a pair of fourth years were seated in the corner speaking softly in tones that were lulling Harry to sleep – a strong hand clapped him on the back.

"Where've you been?" demanded Ron. "We tried to stay up for you, but Hermione was driving me mad, so I said I was off to bed—"

Indeed, Ron's hair was wet and standing a bit on end, and he towered over Harry clad in orange pajamas that clashed horribly. All Harry could do was mumble into the couch's cushions. He should've covered himself with his invisibility cloak, then he'd have been left alone.

Ron was unfazed. He gave Harry's legs a shove and fell onto the cushion beside him. "Detention just ended?"

"A blast."

Ron made a sound of deep disgust. "Bloody hell … " He wrinkled his freckled nose.

"Flobberworms," mumbled Harry into the couch. It came out, rather incomprehensibly, as "Fwbrrrums."

"I thought I heard voices," said Hermione from the bottom of the girls' staircase. Her hair was braided rather neatly and she drew her lavender bathrobe closed. "Ron and I were wondering …" She stopped short. "What is that ghastly smell?"

Harry raised a hand before letting it drop limp again.

He wanted to tell them that he needed peace, but his foul mood from earlier had subsided a little, so he pulled himself up to make space for Hermione in between the two of them. "I was just telling Ronald before he went up to bed," she paused to give the other boy a pointed look, "That we should talk about what to do with Dumbledore's Army this year."

A loud yawn escaped Harry's mouth, drawing the attention of the chatting fourth years. Feeling increasingly like a contented cat, he scratched his stomach and gave a half-grin to Hermione. "What for? The wicked witch is long gone, and Dumbledore's back …"

"Yes," replied Hermione patiently. "And Snape seems like a competent Defense teacher—" to this, Ron scoffed, "—But the extra practice may be good for us all. Besides, it was a rallying point for so many of us. It helped foster a sense of inter-House community—"

Ron looked weary, "I reckon these N.E.W.T. level courses are going to do us in, Hermione—"

"If you'd just use the homework planner I bought you, Ronald, you'd see that it's possible to effectively manage your time—"

"I didn't have Quidditch last year," piped up Harry. "Now they've gone and made me captain – I'm not sure I'll have the time."

"I can help work out the schedule, if you'd like!" replied Hermione brightly.

But Harry wasn't convinced. Suddenly he felt a bit like sulking again. "I'm nobody's teacher."

He half expected some amount of sympathy from his friends when he said this, but Ron simply grinned at him and Hermione treated the statement with the utmost distain. "Harry, really," she sighed, standing and walking toward the fireplace, "We've been through this before. You were a great leader for D.A."

Harry rubbed his temples. "How'm I supposed to teach other people when I'm rubbish in my own lessons?"

Now Hermione smiled at Harry sympathetically. "Is this about nonverbal spells? Harry, with practice you'll get it. It's extremely complicated magic, and hardly the kind of thing we'd expect _you_ to teach—"

"You'll get it soon enough, mate," yawned Ron. "Besides, even _Neville_ managed to jinx Parvati eventually … sort of."

"You'd do well to leave Neville alone. He's improved loads since Harry started teaching us," snapped Hermione. Ron ignored her and nodded at Harry once more. It was true. Though their first lesson left many unsuccessful, by the week's end, nearly everyone in the class had performed a nonverbal spell at least once … except for Harry.

"I can't do it," Harry muttered as he stood and made for the staircase to the boys' dorms, "So don't ask me."

Without another word, he ascended the stairs to the boys' bedrooms. When he entered the sixth-year boys' dorm, he grabbed his towel and disappeared to the bathrooms. Thankful that they were completely empty at this late hour, Harry turned up his shower to its full capacity and slipped out of his now-stained tee-shirt. He caught sight of himself in the mirror, pale and still a bit thin, but more man than boy nowadays. The dragon scar still circled his shoulder and back, and Harry ran his fingers along his lightning bolt scar.

Harry slipped out of his trousers and stepped under the water, making it as hot as he could stand it. Without his glasses he couldn't much focus on anything, and so he closed his eyes and let the spray run over his back and face, washing away some of his tension.

Why did they expect so much from him? The days when Harry longed to think of himself as simply an ordinary boy – just Harry – were long gone. It was evident that path of thought was too optimistic … it simply wasn't possible. But he wanted to coach his Quidditch team and make all right grades and would otherwise do what he had to. Dumbledore's Army … last year, it had been a necessity. And now it wasn't, right?

Harry wrapped a towel around his waist and stumbled back into his room. Ron still hadn't returned from the common room – his bed was unmade, but empty – the rest of his roommates were knocked out, snoring softly. With lights out, Harry changed into his pajamas and pulled back his covers, eager for a bit of rest … maybe he'd even sleep in the next day. However, as he slipped under his sheets, a soft tap came from the window by Neville's bed.

He expected to see a snowy white owl – perhaps Hedwig was lonely for a bit of company – and instead, he found himself peering into a pair of bright yellow eyes.

The owl at the window was black as night, and so its body seemed to disappear into the night, but it peered at Harry intently and a bit impatiently, tapping again when he hesitated. Harry let it in and took the tiny parchment scroll gently from its leg and unwrapped it.

_Dear Harry,_

_If you'd be so kind, please meet me in my office Wednesday at 8 o'clock. We'll have important matters to discuss._

_Sincerely yours,_

_Albus Dumbledore_

Harry read it twice, put it aside onto his desk and fell into bed. At least he'd have meeting with Dumbledore to look forward to, though he wasn't sure what they'd be doing. Now if he could only hold his tongue around Snape.


End file.
